The Aftermath
by Sakurane
Summary: Drabbles that take place in the months after The Final Sacrifice. Not necessarily in order.
1. All I Am Is A Man

_&.&.&_

_All I am is a man_

_I want the world in my hands_

_I hate the beach but I stand_

_In California with my toes in the sand_

_Use the sleeves of my sweater…_

_&.&.&_

Isaac and Allison fell into a comfortable rhythm after the fight with the Darach. It was a friendship of sorts, if a guarded one. They were at least civil with each other, and Isaac eventually stopped thinking of Allison as "the hunter" or "the Argent", or "Scott's psycho girlfriend", and got to know her outside of the supernatural world… and he found that she was perfectly pleasant when she wasn't on a vengeful rampage. He could even say that he _liked _her. She was easy to be around, and as nervous as Isaac was around her, Allison always managed to pull a smile out of him.

As embarrassing as it was to admit, Isaac drew support from her. She was infallible.

Allison had called him that night, seeking a friend that wasn't Lydia. Comfort without judgment or advice, or even questions. This wasn't the first time she'd sought support from him, as his indifference actually served as a sort of anchor for her. Her father was out, and from what Isaac understood, he and his daughter had conflicting ideas of how much involvement Allison should have in their hunting life, which was a recurring discrepancy between them. They'd fought, they'd yelled, and now Allison was emotionally spent.

Isaac had suggested that they watch a movie—an innocent distraction. Allison had nodded, giving him a half-hearted smile. It hurt him to see her like this, so drained of energy and life. He wanted to take care of her, to bring that spark and spirit back.

They settled on the couch with a bowl of popcorn on the table in front of them, eyes trained on the television screen. It was a small couch, which forced Allison closer to Isaac than they probably would have wanted, and they were both hyper aware of each others presence. Allison tucked her legs to the left of her, opposite of him, and had to consciously stop herself from leaning towards him… but her body was just so fatigued…

Isaac had chosen the movie Friends with Benefits, which in hindsight was probably one of the most stupid decisions he could possibly have made, given the subject matter, but at least it didn't have any violence. The last thing either of them needed was a reminder of the reality and horror of their lives.

Allison let her head fall against Isaac's shoulder, and the room suddenly felt like all the oxygen had been sucked out. Neither of them said a word, or even acknowledged the gesture. Her head was so light that he would have thought it was just an innocent mistake, not an apparent invitation. She was toing the line.

Isaac only snuck one peek, his eyes roving over her dark curls, and was glad that he couldn't see her face. That would have made things way too awkward. I would have broken the tenuous, silent agreement between them—an understanding that they wouldn't do anything to compromise their friendship. Neither would step over the line. It wasn't comfortable, but at least their relationship—whatever it was—was safe.

After about twenty minutes, he realized that Allison had fallen asleep. Her breathing was completely even, and her body had relaxed against his, and he couldn't help but marvel at how perfectly they fit together.

Isaac took four deep breaths. Each one drew Allison's scent deeper into his lungs—the earthy, fresh, subtle scent that reminded him of the forest after the rain. All it took was four breaths for him to abandon his inhibitions, if only for a moment.

Slowly, he lowers his face until his senses were completely overtaken by her—her scent, her steady heartbeat, her fuzzy white sweater. He could even _taste _her, Allison's scent causing a strange reaction in his mouth, calling memories and urges right to the surface.

_She's asleep, _he thought, _She won't know about this. _

In a hesitant motion, he placed a delicate, hesitant kiss on the top of her head. He lingered there for several seconds, wishing that things didn't have to be so _damn confusing, _and drew away with a shudder. This kind of selfish, indulgent action couldn't happen again. Whatever was between them would hurt too many people if they gave in.

_She can't know about this._

He was weakening, and Isaac knew it was only a matter of time before he broke.

**The overall song inspiration for this collection of pieces is Sweater Weather by The Neighborhood. I feel like it fits the vibe of Allison and Isaac's relationship perfectly. I do not own Teen Wolf or the song.**


	2. The Kiss

_These hearts adore_

_Everyone the other beats hardest for_

_Inside this place is warm_

_Outside it starts to pour_

_&.&.&_

It isn't perfect by any means. It's a clumsy, sticky kiss—Lydia's Victoria's Secret lipgloss is for the allure, not so much the practicality of making out. Within seconds, the gloss is smeared around Stiles' mouth, and he tastes supreme sweetness—a combination of mint and some kind of citrus. Lydia smells of cosmetics and hair products—slightly artificial, with a hint of vanilla and fruit. It should have turned him off, but instead it drove him crazy, because that smell is just so undeniably _Lydia Martin._

Stiles doesn't really know what he's doing. The only people he's kissed in the past have been dying, or trying to use him to lose their virginity, or trying to ease his panic attack. This time, they are in no immediate danger, and neither of them is on the brink of death. They have simply stopped fighting their instincts.

At first, he is unsure of what to do with his hands, and settles for tangling them in Lydia's hair. She makes a displeased noise at this, since he's ruining the hair style that she so painstakingly put together in the morning, and is probably giving her knots. Stiles has had so many fantasies about this strawberry blonde hair, and now he want to touch it, run his finger through it, just to make sure that this is real.

Stiles has never imagined Lydia being this frenzied—this is something surprising and immensely satisfying. Seeing the impeccable Lydia reduced to a sloppy, rushed, hormone driven teenager sends a heat straight to his groin. He thinks that maybe he's seeing beyond her polished exterior in the bedroom, and that this is probably very rare. Maybe she just doesn't have any expectations to meet with him, because Stiles has virtually no experience. He definitely likes this hungry, liberated Lydia.

Lydia, however, knows exactly what to do with her hands. They're everywhere at once, setting fire to Stiles' skin, and he's having a sensory overload. He can't take in everything, as much as he wants to commit every millisecond into his memory, and focuses on making his mouth move the way he wants it to (this has never been a problem for him in the past). She pulls his shirt over his head, and Stiles doesn't even have time to feel self-conscious as her lips are on his collarbone, making their way slowly down his chest. He has to stifle a whimper, because _god _it felt good to be touched at all. Her head dips tantalizingly close to his belt, and he's panting now, embarrassing little huffs. Lydia looks up at him with a smirk, and he sees in her eyes _exactly _what she plans to do. He feels her nails creep between the waistband of his underwear and stomach.

His mind is running a mile a minute, because he can't believe that Lydia Martin is actually about to give him head—

_I should win an award for the best self-restraint, _Stiles thinks as he interrupts her, guiding her face back to his level. Her expression is inquisitive now, and she starts, "What are you doing—"

He silences her by giving her a chaste kiss, which seems to surprise both of them. Stiles feels more confident now, since Lydia doesn't have a haughty, scornful look on her face, nor has she rejected him yet. He places gentle hands on her shoulders, lowering her onto her back on her bed. She doesn't fight him, but her eyes are wide and wavering. He thinks that she's more beautiful than he's ever seen her before.

He could wait, because he would never forgive himself if he wasted a chance, with Lydia in his bed, to see her completely unraveled. He would hate himself forever if their first time doing anything together—and maybe their last, for all he knows—if Stiles becomes just another one of Lydia's distractions. He wouldn't let her do things only for his benefit. He would please _her, _unlike some of the other selfish people that she invited to bed. She would remember him as more than that.

He kisses his way down her front, settling himself between her legs, tapping them and urging her to follow along. Understanding dawns on her face, and she props herself up on her elbows.

"You don't have to do that." She sounds uncertain, and puts her legs closer together. Jackson had only gone down on her once, and that had been with quite a bit of negotiation from her.

"I want to." He says honestly, because Stiles wants to make Lydia feel just as special as he thinks that she is. She deserves to be worshipped, and this is a good place to start.

"Well… thank you."

And he can see that she means it. As he eases her back onto the bed, she has lost some of her bravado, entering a territory that is unknown to her, as well as him. She is reticent at first, as Stiles fumbles, not exactly sure where to start, but then he just plunges in, and it's like a spark that ignites a wild fire. Lydia's back is arching, her hands curling and uncurling around the sheets, and Stiles is content to just lose himself in the taste that is Lydia Martin. He studies her every response, so intently that Lydia covers her face with her arm several times in embarrassment.

He must be doing a reasonable job, because soon, Lydia comes undone. She throws her head back in abandon, and her gasp makes his jeans feel unbearably tight.

"Thanks." She says again, after her body has stopped shaking. Stiles gives her a lopsided grin, playing it cool to the best of his ability, even though his head is somewhere lost in the clouds.

"No problem. In fact, it was my pleasure. Well, hopefully somewhat your pleasure too, because otherwise I would feel like kind of a dick if I was the only one who got off on something like this-"

Lydia smirks in amusement, and pulls his mouth to hers.

Maybe Lydia is thinking of Aiden leaving her, just like Jackson, because in the end he hadn't truly loved her enough to stay. Maybe she's lonely and needs someone, anyone, to fill the space. Maybe this is all one great experiment to her, and tomorrow, they would go back to pretending that there was nothing between them. That he was still dorky Stiles, and she was the Queen Bee.

Maybe the rain would wash away the memories of this encounter entirely.

But to Stiles, it doesn't matter. The fact that Lydia is letting him in at all—the fact that _she _came to _him _this time, the fact that she was looking only at him in this moment—it is enough.

No, the kiss isn't perfect, but it is everything that Stiles could have wished for.

**Sorry if this chapter was a bit confusing to read, but this is the closest thing to a real lime that I've ever written, and it was kind of difficult for me to put it down on paper. Let me know in a review if I could have changed anything to make it better/ less confusing!**


	3. What One Smile Did To Her

**This chapter is particularly short, but some of the vignettes in this collection will be. It's inspired by those rare Isaac Lahey smiles that just send my heart a flutter in the show. If something jumps out at you, don't be afraid of that review button!**

**&.&.&.&.&**

Isaac Lahey's smiles were like a breath of fresh air.

They were something that Allison came to both treasure and crave, because they were so few and far between. Sure, he would give crooked half-smiles, or smug little tugs at the corners of his mouth, but he rarely graced people with a _true _smile. Those were glimpses of happiness that he kept to himself, and guarded carefully.

Sometimes he would look completely surprised when a grin came to his face, as if he didn't expect it to be there, either. His mouth would split open like a child's, full of joy and appreciation. But he wasn't like Scott, who smiled easily and often. Isaac's smiles were hard-earned, unexpected, a gift… and Allison was determined to witness as many as possible.

Because her heart seemed to soar when Isaac smiled.


	4. Sick Day

**I do not own Teen Wolf. This chapter is inspired by my own sick day, and how I wish that I had an Isaac to come nurse me back to health. **

Allison Argent rarely gets sick. She is a healthy and robust girl, eats well, and exercises daily. But the recent stress due to the alphas finally takes it's toll on her body. This particular virus hits her like a freight train, hard and completely without warning.

The sunshine blaring against her bedroom shades seems far too bright. Her head is full of cotton, and her throat feels as if a Chinese ring dagger is pressed against her vocal cords. She recognizes the heaviness in her limbs as sickness, further confirmed as she sits up and her vision blinks in and out, like a clip of a movie. She slumps back down. There is no way that she is going to school, since she is positive that she has a fever.

She decides to try and sleep it off, because although she has the means to treat some of the symptoms, the medicine is downstairs. She is just as likely to fall and break her neck if she goes down there.

Allison falls into a restless slumber for forty minutes, than wakes with her fever raging, and every movement leaving her world spinning. She tears the sheets away from her chest and instantly feels less suffocated. She braves a walk to the upstairs bathroom to get a glass of water, than returns to her cocoon of blankets.

During her next phase of lucidity, she cradles her phone close to her and scrolls aimlessly through names.

She supposed that she wasn't thinking straight—that was the only explanation as to why she called Isaac. But then again, maybe there had been more clarity to her thought process than she wanted to believe, since her father was out of town on some sort of hunter business, Lydia was with Ethan, calling Scott to look after her was just weird, and Stiles… well, she would never even entertain that idea. The list of people that she could call was relatively small, and even so, she wasn't on death's door. She was just being a child about her discomfort.

She was more than a damsel in distress. She didn't need a boy to make her feel better, nor did she like to think of herself as high maintenance, but while miserably and curled up in bed, she just felt _lonely. _In her half-delirious state, her fingers find their way to the keyboard of her phone, seemingly on autopilot.

She regrets calling the second that he answers.

"Hello?" Isaac said hesitantly—he almost always has a questioning tone when dealing with Allison.

She swallows, trying to clear some of the cobwebs from her throat. "Hi."

There is silence on the other end, except for the sound of Isaac breathing through his nose. After nearly thirty second, Isaac finally breaks it.

"Allison?"

Now that she's called him, she had no idea what to say. Or how to say it.

"I'm here." She slurs slightly.

"You're not at school."

"Sick."

Silence again. Allison thinks that he's hung up as the pause extends for what feels like an eternity, but it could have been as short as a second. She is so disoriented that she has to consciously bring herself back into the conversation when Isaac speak again.

"Okay."

Then he hangs up for real, and Allison continues to clutch the phone in her hands, half-expecting him to call back with some sort of explanation…

Allison awakens to a light tapping on her window. She rotates her neck in time to see Isaac crawl cautiously through her open window, pushing the drapes aside.

"I knocked so you wouldn't jump me this time." He explains.

She squints at him due to her scratchy eyes. "You came." Her voice sounds like that woman in the commercial with the stoma in her neck due to prolonged smoking.

He shrugs, a common Isaac gesture, which generally meant that he was trying not to make a big deal out of something nice that he'd done for someone. He then closes the gap between the drapes again.

He smirks. "Nice sweater."

Allison looks down at the atrocity that she'd thrown on during one of her chills. It's a fuzzy white garment, reminiscent of a polar bear costume, that Lydia has tried to dispose of on more than one occasion. She was sure that she was a sight with her watery eyes, flushed face, and dark rings under her eyes—the fact that his only comment had been on her sweater had been kind on his part.

"Hey," Allison protests, "It's comfortable!"

"It looks like it's trying to eat you."

She reaches for the hem of the sweater and tugged it over her head in one smooth motion. She'd been too hot. Now she catches Isaac staring, and she notices that her tank top has ridden up her stomach. She pulls it back in place, and she thinks that she must be imagining disappointment flitting across Isaac's face. Despite the receding heat, she still feels short of breath.

"Better?" She says weakly, and he gives a tiny nod.

"Just lie down." He tells her, and a shiver runs through her, though she isn't sure if it's the chills again, or due to the tone of his voice—it's the same tone that he uses when they're embroiled in darkness, divesting each other of their clothes, both breathless. It is low, commanding, yet unsure at the same time, and Allison finds that this is her favorite combination.

She obliges, and they watch each other. Allison has found that Isaac says an awful lot with his eyes, if you know how to interpret what you see. They are roving over her, and she can see him noting his observations about her condition in his head. Isaac is similarly clinical when he examines injured animals at the clinic, where he'd gone to work under Deaton. But his mouth is slightly pinched with concern instead of his usual nervousness and anxiousness, which is reserved for people like Scott. Isaac only worries for his friends like that.

"Do you need anything?"

She shakes her head. Talking takes too much energy. She just wants to sleep and wake up healthy again…

Steam rises under her nostrils. She forces her eyes open, not even remembering having closed them. Isaac is standing by her bed, offering a hot cup of tea. She takes it with a small smile. He's even managed to hunt down the honey somewhere in their pantry, though she guesses it wasn't too difficult with a werewolf's sense of smell. Her strength fails her when she tries to set it down on her bedside table, and Isaac guides her hand with his.

"Are you feeling any better?" He asks.

She lets out a whine, which he chuckles at.

"I'll take that as a no. I think you're fever is going down, at least. I brought you some meds earlier." Isaac murmurs, checking her temperature with the back of his hand chastely.

"I don't remember." She admits with embarrassment. Judging by the natural light in her bedroom, it must be sometime around midday. Isaac had stayed with her for hours.

"I'm not surprised. You were pretty out of it. I guess that means you don't remember taking off all your clothes and trying to seduce me?"

"I _didn't!" _Allison says, horrified. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"Relax. I'm just messing with you."

Allison glares, half in amusement, half in exasperation. "Don't you know it's cruel to tease a sick girl? I think your bedside manner could use some work, mister."

"If you're able to partake in our usual witty banter, you must be feeling better. Although you look exhausted."

"I am."

"Then sleep some more."

"If you say so, Doctor." Allison says with as much playfulness as she can muster, collapsing back onto the pillows. Isaac stands there for a few moments, an unreadable expression on his face. His hand is hanging by his side, just within her reach, and before she can change her mind or think twice about it, she reaches out from under the covers and brushes his fingers with hers. He looks down questioningly, but doesn't move away.

Allison holds his hand weakly, with a miniscule tug towards her. She lifts the covers wordlessly in invitation. Her cheeks pink, but the color is lost on her already flushed cheeks. She's just cold, that's the only reason that she craves Isaac's body heat. Any body would do, his was just convenient.

Or so she tells herself later.

She is enormously grateful that Isaac doesn't tease her about this momentary weakness. Instead, he is very quiet, but gentle as he maneuvers himself under the sheets next to her, the places that he nudges even warmer than her forehead. He treats her like fine china, as if expecting her to kick him out at any moment. Eventually, though, they settle together contentedly.

There is really no replacement for physical human comfort. She would question herself after her fever dissipated, berate herself for caving in and calling someone, especially Isaac. But for right now, she just wants to enjoy being held.

She feels weightless, yet grounded firmly at the same time. Even while her head is in the clouds, she is all too aware of Isaac's arm against her neck, and the steady beat of his heart against her ear. The metronome lulls her to sleep, and for the first time in many months, Allison sleeps like a baby.


End file.
